


Hikari O Tomoshi

by KingdomFlameVIII



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous genetalia, Banter, Character Study, Crowley wears dresses, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Retirement, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), featuring makeup as foreplay, handjobs, or fingering, vague depictions of sex, you can decide really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 21:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingdomFlameVIII/pseuds/KingdomFlameVIII
Summary: In which Crowley relishes in creativity, and Aziraphale is a very supportive husband.





	Hikari O Tomoshi

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a few years since I've written anything, but this fandom... it got me, man. Title is from the Queen song, "Teo Torriate." I hope you enjoy reading this!

Crowley was strolling languidly through the garden, trying to find things to nitpick. Unlike his indoor plants, which were kept mostly to the green variety, he had many flower bushes out here, as well as trees, shrubs, and vines. It truly was a small paradise, Aziraphale said so often.

He came across a trumpet vine that, if approached from the right angle, was getting dangerously close to obscuring a stone bench. There were a few stubborn weeds springing up along the base. This would not do.

"Oi! Ease up," he snarled, "That's meant to be a focal point."

The vine remained where it was, petulant.

Crowley crouched down low.

"I'll end you," he warned. "I'll do it. I'll rip you straight out of the ground and chop you into bits. I always did think a hydrangea would look nice here."

The vine obligingly straightened up, shuffling its tendrils ever so slightly to the side. He would let it go for now. Crowley set to work ripping out the weeds, and the vine trembled every time his fingers grazed over its base.

When Crowley was satisfied with his work, he came inside, dirt caked underneath his nails and in the fine lines of his palms. He had stains on the knees of his jeans and soil crusting the cuffs. The beginnings of a sunburn tingled hot along his shoulders.

Crowley was not strictly speaking prone to sunburns, just as he was not prone to fatigue or thirst. Still, he slept and drank, and he burned. He sort of like the sting. Liked to be reminded of it when he bathed, or changed clothes, or--

"You're tracking dirt into the house," Aziraphale complained in a lazy, long suffering tone. 

He always did, but Crowley brushed swiftly past, hiding the little basket of blackberries he carried along his hip so that Aziraphale could not see. He would still need them yet.

"I'll get it in a minute!" he called from the kitchen. He could have left it all day, and sometimes he did, but if Aziraphale noticed he might get up and follow him into the kitchen, and Crowley couldn't have that.

Crowley, as a general rule, did not believe in aprons.

It wasn't that he couldn't see the functionality in them. He just found them rather undemonic, and wearing one whilst also undemonically making cupcakes seemed like overkill. But what could he do? Aziraphale loved cupcakes.

Today they would be lemon, with whipped blackberry icing, and he set right to work. He first zested and juiced the lemons Aziraphale had brought him from the local farmer's market, then set the blackberries to simmer.

It was, blessedly, a few hours later that Aziraphale had finally gotten bored enough to come puttering into the kitchen, by which time Crowley was quite nearly finished and no longer needed what was left of the blackberries.

"My dear, it smells delightful in here!" said Aziraphale happily, taking a seat on a bar stool while Crowley worked across the countertop, "What have you come up with this time?"

"Shush," Crowley replied, "you actually came just in time."

He patted his hands across the front of his shirt, leaving hand-shaped prints of confectioners sugar over the black fabric, and there had been copious amounts of flour streaked over it already. His shirt was long-sleeved, of course, because it had to be, cuffs smeared with pink-purple frosting, which he was still mixing with vigour.

"Here," he said, scooping a dollop onto his finger and raising it to Aziraphale's lips, "taste it."

Aziraphale obligingly closed his lips over the finger and sucked it clean.

"Too sweet?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale contemplated a minute. "Actually I was thinking the opposite."

Crowley smirked.

"So it's just right then. I should've known you'd be a fiend."

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but he did not argue. He knew better than to question Crowley's culinary decisions. Everything he made, after all, was for Aziraphale.

"Is that blackberry?" Aziraphale asked instead, an underlying question glinting in his eyes.

"Over on the counter." Crowley very nearly didn't even bother trying to hide his smile.

Aziraphale hopped down eagerly and crossed the kitchen to sample one. His eyes closed as soon as the berry touched his lips and he gave a delighted little _ hmm _. 

"Mmm, that is _ splendid! _Are these from the garden?"

"Mhm."

"They're decadent. They taste...hm. They taste less, what is it... frightened?"

"They most certainly do not!"

They did. Crowley had to admit, he'd been a little lax with them lately, because they had been behaving. Though, he made a point to warn them every so often.

_"You're on thin fucking ice," _ Crowley would tell them. _ "So you best not be going around getting ideas."_

As Aziraphale busied himself with the blackberries, Crowley pushed all of the frosting into a bag and began meticulously piping it in neat swirls onto the cupcakes. 

After each cupcake had been frosted and garnished with a candied lemon slice, Crowley brushed his hands over his clothes again and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"Your clothes are a wreck," Aziraphale tutted. "I simply don't understand why you wont wear an apron. I got you one in black and crimson, you know. it looks very evil."

"It's tartan!" said Crowley, scorned.

"Tartan can be evil."

Crowley dropped his face into his palm, closing his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose

"Th- I- that's not even in the _ realm _ of- you know what, never mind, I'm not even gonna..." he trailed off. Aziraphale was already looking far too pleased with himself. "Anyway, I kind of like the mess."

"You've certainly made quite a bit of it," said Aziraphale, surveying the kitchen. Nearly every surface had something on it; dishes, spoons, mixing bowls, the occasional splash of lemon juice here and there. Everything was dusted in a thin layer of some powder or another. Bits of escaped berry jam had burnt and crusted into the burners.

By contrast, the cupcakes were a picture of perfection as Crowley stacked them delicately onto a tiered plate. Crowley had been baking since the End that didn't happen - about a decade or so - and he liked to think he'd gotten pretty good at it. 

With a wave of his hand, the mess vanished and everything returned to their proper places, and the tower of cupcakes easily became the centerpoint of the room.

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. "Oh, darling they look wonderful."

"Go on then," said Crowley, feigning nonchalance.

Aziraphale plucked one right from the very top and, in his eagerness, nearly forgot to pull down the wrapper. He made a show of tasting it, as always, savouring the flavor. He drew out a long contented sigh and opened his eyes at last.

"You've outdone yourself. And you were right about the icing! It would have been far too sweet. Oh, these are sublime!"

He polished it off and quickly set to another. He was smiling all the while, eyes crinkling and twinkling. He wiggled in his seat a little bit as he chewed, and made pleased little noises between bites. Crowley watched him with a swell of something between pride and adoration, and it had nothing to do with the cupcakes.

"You really must try one, dear. You really are getting so good at this. How did i ever get so lucky?"

_Funny, I was just thinking something similar._

Crowley gave in and took a cupcake. His first thought was too much frosting. It was piled high enough to graze his nose as he bit down into it. The tartness of the berries came through just enough to compliment the sweetness of the cake. Two sharp flavors came together, perfectly balanced, though he still thought it could have done with less frosting. 

"S'alright," he allowed. "Yeah, it's not bad, that."

Aziraphale dabbed lightly at his lips with a napkin.

"Would you like to come out to supper with me? It's a bit of a drive where I'd like to go, but. Do you remember that restaurant inside the casino a few towns over? I hear they've got braised lamb now and I'd love to give it a try."

"Sure," said Crowley. "Love to."

The dress is black, and made mostly from a wispy, gossamer material. There was only the smallest section of solid fabric, placed to cover the breast and undergarments.

Crowley, who was wearing neither breasts nor undergarments today, stood slightly hunched in front of a mirror, applying makeup.

He worked in smooth strokes, swift and feather light. He took great pleasure in the routine of it: the patting and the placing, the mapping, the sketching. Tying it all together piece by piece. It pulled in all of his focus and he allowed himself to get lost in it.

He was using dark colours. Charcoal grey on the eyebrows, deep purples and navys on the eyes. He was about a minute or so into the eyes when a tentative knock sounded at the door.

"Come on in, angel."

Aziraphale pushed the door open and soon appeared in Crowley's mirror. 

"I hope I'm not being a bother," he began, "just reading has become terribly dull at the moment, and I was wondering at what time you might like to head out to dinner."

Crowley immediately took this to be Aziraphale-speak for _ I'm beginning to get a bit peckish so could you, if you please, move this along a bit? _ and mentally began to improvise a way to complete the look quickly.

"I can start to wrap up if you like," he offered, already seeking the tools he would need to do so.

Aziraphale stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. 

"Oh no, that's not what I meant at all!" he said apologetically, "Actually, if you don't mind I was hoping you would let me watch."

"Oh."

Looking over Crowley's shoulder, Aziraphale observed the counter. Cremes, powders, tubes and pans and wands were all splayed out on the counter, all with a unique purpose. All funny textures and scents and coloured dust brushing off in clouds into the air. Crowley was standing in an art studio.

"Sure, pull up a chair," Crowley said eventually.

Aziraphale summoned a high stool, sitting him almost eye level with Crowley, and gave him a mild, non invasive sort of attention

Generally speaking, Crowley was less than more comfortable being watched. Six millennia of dealing with Hell will do that, he imagined. He had a tendency to spook if anyone looked at him too long. It made him acutely aware of what he was doing, and dangerously unaware of what was happening around him.

But Aziraphale was Aziraphale, he thought, so he tentatively expanded his bubble, slowly letting Aziraphale into his space, into his personal time. 

He had found himself all day feeling a quiet sense of restlessness, but Aziraphale's presence seemed to have a grounding effect on him. The initial tension of being watched began to ease from his shoulders as he relaxed back into his work.

"Why do you put it on that way?" Aziraphale asked. There was no judgement or impatience in his tone, just genuine curiosity. "Why not miracle it like your clothes?"

Crowley knew the answer, but pretended to think about it for a moment anyway.

"I like the process. It's fun, it's..." he screwed up his face trying to find the right word. _ Relaxing? Therapeutic? _ "...transfixing?"

"It's transfixing to watch too," Aziraphale agreed. "But then, why bother with the eyes? It's not as though anyone is going to see you without your glasses on."

Crowley set his brush down, looked at Aziraphale through the mirror, and blinked deliberately. A blush appeared on the angel's cheeks as he tried and failed to hide a guilty smile.

"Point taken. Um. May i braid your hair? Would that be too distracting?"

"Nah, have at it."

Crowley shook his hair out of its loose bun and it tumbled down his back, almost long enough to touch his elbows. 

Aziraphale scooted his stool closer and took to it immediately, threading his fingers carefully through the hair so as not to disturb the curls. He began braiding a waterfall along the side of Crowley's head.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence again, interrupted occasionally by a "what is that for?" from Aziraphale or "does this look even?" from Crowley. 

"Hands off for this next bit," Crowley said as he raised a wand of lipstick to his lips. "Gonna need to be perfectly steady with this one."

The lipstick Crowley selected was an outlandish blue-grey, one that Aziraphale, despite effort, simply couldn't ignore.

"Not sure about that. It's a lovely colour, erm. Interesting. What's it called?"

"Medusa," Crowley answered with a fanged smile.

"Oh, good lord," Aziraphale replied.

The colour complimented the rest of the face well enough, especially after feathering some black in around the corners. 

He misted his face with a flourish, then turned around to face Aziraphale, cocking a hand on his hip.

"Done."

He looked good and he knew it. The colours matched his complexion perfectly, complimented the colours of his hair, the angles on his face. It was all expertly tailored. 

"My dear, that is beautiful," said Aziraphale. He brought his hands up as though to touch, but, remembering himself, he simply let his fingers hover over the peaks and contours of Crowley's face.

"Beautiful," he repeated. "It's a beautiful piece."

Crowley pretended to look away in disinterest. "S'just makeup, angel."

Aziraphale had That Look about him, so Crowley obligingly leaned in and placed a little kiss on his mouth.

"Thank you."

Aziraphale raised two fingers to his lips. "Are my lips grey now?"

"Nuh. Makeup's come a long way since you've worn it. Trust me, this isn't gonna budge. Want me to do yours?"

The last time Aziraphale had worn makeup was in 18th century Paris, when it was fashionable for men to do so. He'd worn it many times throughout history when it was culturally appropriate, but if Crowley remembered right, he did like the rouge of the French. He correctly thought it complimented his hair and eyes.

"You're not going to do it like _ that _, are you?" Aziraphale asked, looking up and down Crowley's face.

"Dunno, maybe," Crowley said, grinning wickedly. "You wanna find out?"

"You're the one that has to take me to dinner later," Aziraphale said mildly.

Crowley hadn't really planned on doing anything drastic anyway. He wanted Aziraphale to like it.

"Sit down?" he asked, gesturing to the stool.

He was more gentle with Aziraphale than he had been with himself. He held his chin gently in one hand; he didn't really need to, but whenever Crowley touched him Aziraphale would occasionally get the Look again, and Crowley very much liked that look. 

He used his thumb and fingers to spot blend when necessary, and had to lay at least one finger down to keep his hand steady when working with a brush. he rubbed his thumb oh so softly over Aziraphale's cupid's bow, distributing highlight.

When he was finished, he stood Aziraphale from the stool, surveyed him for a moment, and snapped his fingers.

"Did you just _ dress _ me?"

"Oh come on, when's the last time you changed clothes? Have you ever taken that jacket off once in 200 years?" Crowley teased.

"I believe i took it off last Tuesday," Aziraphale said smugly. "Weren't you there?"

He had a slightly different look about him this time, another one that Crowley liked.

Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and steered him around to face the mirror. "That's not so bad, is it?"

He had dressed Aziraphale in a lilac linen shirt, buttoned low enough to expose just a little bit of chest, tucked into white trousers with a slightly raised waistline. He'd added a brown belt, made of cloth because he wasn't sure if Aziraphale had actually worn a belt before, and comfortable white dress shoes. 

On his face, Aziraphale's eyes were ringed in a lighthanded tinge of periwinkle and gray, just enough to accentuate and compliment the color of his eyes. His cheeks were tastefully rouged for the current era, saturated just enough that Aziraphale could clearly see it. 

The only thing that even came close to daring was the lips, which Crowley had painted a dark berry color.

"Well," Aziraphale said brightly, his tone encouraging. "I don't hate it. But, don't you think I look a little bit... mafia?"

Crowley couldn't even begin to know where Aziraphale had concocted the idea of how mafia *dress, but Aziraphale was once again Looking like that, so he decided not to ask.

*He would ask later, and be absolutely delighted to hear of Aziraphale's run ins with them, and even more so at his subsequent solution to them.

"You look," he murmured into Aziraphale's ear, leaving one hand on his shoulder and letting the other slide down his back to cup his rear, "like a snack."

"If I'm a snack," he replied, mirroring Crowley's tone, "then you are _ dinner _."

As soon as their lips touched Crowley realized his mistake.

"Hold on," he said, "your lipstick is gonna smear."

Indeed, where Aziraphale had kissed Crowley he'd left an imprint that clashed terribly with the slate color on Crowley's own lips.

"I thought you said it wouldn't move!"

"Yeah, but this is tube lipstick, it's different."

"Why does the wet one stay dry but the dry one stays wet?"

"What? I don't know, I'm not the one that comes up with-"

Crowley was cut off as Aziraphale pulled him into a searing kiss. It was heated, fast, and _ sloppy _. Aziraphale's lips closed over his own; above, below, to the side. He nipped and bit them, opened his mouth wide enough to swallow them both and forced his way inside.

Crowley submitted to it instantly, fell into it, craved it. He turned his body fully to more completely press them together. He could feel the sticky marks Aziraphale left behind, feel his own lipstick start to dissolve under the rough scraping of Aziraphale's teeth.

Aziraphale moved away from his lips and smeared kisses into his jaw, his neck, and his chest, occasionally biting along the way.

"You're messing up my work," Crowley protested weakly, leaning his head to the side to expose more neck.

"I thought you liked the mess," said Aziraphale flippantly.

"You bastard," Crowley panted, clutching through Aziraphale's thin shirt to dig blunt nails into the backs of his shoulders. "Don't stop."

Aziraphale politely did not stop. He impolitely seized Crowley tightly by the waist, lifted him up to sit him on the counter, and pushed himself to stand between Crowley's legs.

Crowley leaned back on his palms and let himself be overwhelmed. Aziraphale touched him slowly, thoroughly, slid his hands up and down his thighs, across his abdomen, down his back. Aziraphale's hands lit up nerves as they traveled, waking them up, spreading heat, jolting Crowley out of his doldrums.

Eventually Aziraphale settled with one hand tangled into Crowley's hair at the base of his neck, the other sneaking up the skirt of his dress.

Crowley surged forward into another passionate kiss, draping his arms over Aziraphale's shoulders. he licked his way into Aziraphale's mouth, needy, hungry, and it felt so, _ so _ good. His legs quaked beneath him as he sucked hard, shaky breaths in through his nose.

"My, you're close already, aren't you?" Aziraphale mused, pleasuring him lazily, "I've hardly had to touch you."

"Mmmph-ziraphale," Crowley mumbled into his neck.

Aziraphale's touches grew deliberate as he set in practiced ease into doing what he did so _ well, _working him, taking him apart.

Crowley was kissing him everywhere he could reach in a frenzied state, stopped occasionally to bite or gasp or breathe hot air soft over his skin. It felt like sin and wasn't that just fucking delightful?

And then Aziraphale quickened his pace, working faster, harder, and Crowley was back on his palms again, face turned up towards the heavens. His eyes shut, his lips barely parted, hair spilling back over his shoulders.

"A-angel!" he gasped

"I know, dearest, it's all right," said Aziraphale, "go ahead."

Crowley convulsed, and became still. 

After a few long moments, when he was capable of doing so, Crowley opened his eyes blearily, and through the haze Aziraphale came into focus. 

Red-purple marks bloomed around his lips, lipstick transferred to Crowley transferred back to him in sloppy stains extending as far down as the hollow of his throat and down onto his exposed chest. Had they not clearly just been having sex, Crowley might have compared it to a small child trying to eat chocolate cake for the first time. 

"You look ridiculous," he croaked, grinning lazily at the sight.

"Thank you," Aziraphale replied, looking thoroughly satisfied with his handiwork.

"Shall I, then?" Crowley asked, hands wandering toward the waistband of Aziraphale's trousers.

Aziraphale laid his hands over Crowley's and slowed them. "Perhaps later," he said thoughtfully. "I quite like seeing you like this."

"Like how?"

The countertop was not high, but Aziraphale held him gently by the waist to guide him off the counter and into his arms. Crowley turned to face himself in the mirror.

He was worse than Aziraphale. For one, he was standing quite bonelessly, wearing a dazed sort of smile. Despite his promises to the contrary, his own lipstick _ had _ budged quite spectacularly, had mixed with Aziraphale's to make a sort of dull purple that streaked all around the mouth area and down to his jaw. It was astounding how just one thin layer could go so far. He could see every little place that Aziraphale had kissed him, the evidence laid out like a drawing.

They watched each other in the mirror for a few long seconds, and then cracked, simultaneously bursting into a fit of giggles, which quickly turned into helpless laughter.

They stood there for several minutes, laughing and clutching each other until their sides hurt.

"What would say about ordering takeaway?" Aziraphale asked, a few more giggles bubbling from his lips.

Crowley kissed him on the forehead, leaving one last gentle mark atop his skin. 

"You read my mind."

The waxing moon hung low over a lonely beach. It cast a dull light, illuminating the sands and gleaming atop the waves. It was a quiet, unimposing moon, providing what light it needed to and nothing more.

It was Aziraphale's idea to take a short trip to "stretch their legs," but Crowley wasn't fooled. He knew a date when he saw one, and they _ had _ missed dinner.

Technically the beach was closed, and private at that, but it was close to the cottage and very clean. With a short miracle they could come and go and be sure that no human would be any the wiser.

"The point is, the _ point _ is, that Data wos sentient de_spite _ the fact that he wern't s'posed to be," Crowley slurred. He was carrying his shoes in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

"That depends on where you draw the line," Aziraphale replied, sounding equally sloshed, "One might argue that emotional awareness is required in having a soul. It's what sets humans apart."

"But what about--about... something," said Crowley. "it's, it's it's, erm..."

"You're not making a very good point."

"Elephants!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "They've got empathy. And they mourn their dead. They care about each other. They help each other. And they help other things too. Do you think they've got souls but they're not sentient? Can you be sentient without one?"

"Only humans have souls," Aziraphale insisted.

"What makes you so sssure?" he asked, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Who's to say the Almighty's not out there making more right now? Angels, humans, demons, the lot of us, we were probably all just a test run. She hasn't spoken a word to _ anyone _ since the wheel was invented. What do you suppose She's doing? She can't just be talking to the Metatron all the time, he's a real wanker."

"You shouldn't say such things," Aziraphale said softly, not unkindly, "She could be listening."

The tide was coming in. Foamy waves lapped gently against the hem of Crowley's dress. He was getting cold.

"God's not here anymore, angel. Not here, not in Hell, certainly not in Heaven. She's gone."

A silence passed between them. Not uncomfortable, not for Crowley. Not after all this time. Aziraphale wasn't so easy to shake anymore. Salty air breezed gently around them, and the waves rolled in steady, like a heartbeat. They continued to pass the wine bottle between them. 

Every so often, Crowley tripped over his skirt, and Aziraphale tripped over nothing at all. When it was clear that balance was no longer in their favor, they drifted slightly away from the water, and walking shortly turned into shuffling.

Eventually, Aziraphale stopped altogether. Crowley turned around to look back and saw him gazing at the sky, expression masked almost completely by the darkness.

"Come sit down with me?"

Crowley, never one to deny Aziraphale anything, simply followed him rather than answering, and they quietly made their way to a dry, relatively level spot of land. Aziraphale sat in the sand, and then laid down completely, completely enraptured with the sky above.

They laid together side by side, palms down, pinkies overlapping. The sand was cold, colder than the air, and once or twice Crowley had to stop himself from shivering. His feet, at least, were not wet anymore.

"They're beautiful tonight," said Aziraphale. "Truly remarkable. It does make one feel small."

Away from London's light pollution, away from the whole world it felt like, sometimes, the stars shone like anything. It was an exceptionally clear night, and their light scattered across it in precise detail. Crowley's throat tightened at the sight of it.

It was beautiful, yes. Too beautiful for words, overwhelmingly so. But Aziraphale was right, it did make him feel small. It made him feel forgotten. insignificant, used up, sent away to die. 

"It does," Crowley found himself agreeing.

"Do you suppose that there really is something else out there? Some planet, or something, with a whole new life on it? A whole new world?" Aziraphale asked, wonder in his voice.

"Dunno. We weren't allowed to make any planets that could sustain life. Course that doesn't mean anything, God knows She doesn't need our help."

"What do you mean? Who is 'we?'"

Crowley stopped breathing for a moment. He didn't talk about Heaven. At least, not the time he'd spent there. Not _ his H_eaven. Not the fall, not anything. He couldn't even remember his own name. Crowley is a demon, this would always be a constant. Not something he wanted to go around shifting the perspective of. 

Being cut off from the host leaves a hole in oneself. A damp, drafty, desolate hole, full of sickness. You never stop feeling it, the injury where God's love used to be. Aziraphale never asked questions, he never even brought it up. He knew. He didn't understand, and hopefully he never could, but he knew. It was one of the little things Crowley loved so much about him.

"I. I sort of. My purpose in- before I... before the rebellion. I was an architect. That's what I did."

"Oh!" said Aziraphale, in a jovial tone Crowley had a hard time placing. "That explains the freckles."

Crowley frowned, taken aback. "What are you talking about? What freckles?"

Aziraphale hoisted himself up and sat on his knees. "Tell me dear, did you have anything to do with the constellation Draco?"

Crowley instantly sat up too, shocked. His eardrums were thrumming. The air was at a complete standstill, which blessedly meant that, though shocked and unsure, Crowley was at least not so cold anymore.

"It's one of mine," he said, stunned. "Was. I mean it was."

"Yes, it's on your back," Aziraphale replied serenely. "Would you turn so i can see?"

Crowley did as he was bid. The air tickled over his newly exposed skin, sending another shiver through him. He wondered if maybe the sand had been warmer after all.

Aziraphale scooted behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder, palm flat against his skin, a single point of warmth, just enough to stave off the bite of the wind. It tingled against his sunburn.

He felt a light finger, tracing a winding line along his left shoulderblade, over his dress. 

"It's right here," said Aziraphale. "The constellation Draco. Is it your favorite? It's the darkest one. They're all over your back. They come out when you go into the sun. Took me a few years to realize what they were."

"Ngk," said Crowley, overwhelmed.

They were. They were _ here,_ with him. A part of him. He no longer had a home up there. No longer had a home in Heaven.These things were not his, they were so many years away, so many days, and yet somehow they _ were _ still, irrevocably, impossibly, his. The evidence worked into his very skin.

"What else have you done, darling? If you don't mind my asking."

"Um," Crowley choked. He swallowed thickly, trying feebly to collect himself. Aziraphale's hand was impossibly warm. "Sagittarius."

Another lightly tracing finger. "Here. Orion?"

"I was on the committee."

Aziraphale made his way across Crowley's back, finding them all from memory, touching and naming the stars as he went. They were all there. Every last one. Everything Crowley had so much as touched.

When there were no more stars to name, Aziraphale snaked his arms around Crowley's middle and held him to his chest. His warmth seeped beneath the skin now, penetrating deep into Crowley's chest. 

Crowley relaxed, and Aziraphale continued to hold him. They breathed softly together, looked up to the stars in unison.

"Do you still miss it?" Aziraphale asked softy, so very, very softly. "Heaven?"

Crowley no longer had a home in Heaven. And this, he knew, was definitely not the worst case scenario.

"You know, angel? I don't think I've missed heaven since the garden."

Aziraphale exhaled lightly, and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck.

"Neither have I, my love."


End file.
